


The Two of Us

by StellaC



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Kink Meme, M/M, Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaC/pseuds/StellaC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something going on between Connor and Haytham. And they knew it. They tried to fight it. But they couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father and Son

**Author's Note:**

> It's basically retelling most of Sequence 9 here. And I'm trying to give them a relationship, rather than father/son with benefits.
> 
> Fill for asscreedkinkmeme: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9943555#cmt9943555
> 
> Added 5.23: For those who have read AC: Forsaken, in this story, the conversation within the Inner Circle after Boston Tea Party never happened, so Haytham didn't find out Connor's personal vendetta against Charles until he was told by Connor himself. If I'm to be completely honest, some of Bowden's plots don't make much sense, such as why Ziio left Haytham at the first place, and how Haytham found out about Connor's identity and his beef with Charles.

_I._

The first time he properly looked at Haytham Kenway, his father who had been absent from all his life, was when he was being pinned down by the older man at that abandoned church in the Frontier.

Though they met briefly before. As a matter of fact, twice. The first time was when he was 15, and he saw him among the angry crowd in Boston. They were too far away, and he was confused, surprised, infuriated, and a little bit sad. He didn’t get a good look of Haytham’s face, before he had to go off to chase one of his lackeys. The second time was in Bridewell Prison, when Hickey was being moved to a better cell. But his eyes were on Hickey, trying to combust the man with his anger. He didn’t even pay much attention to Haytham.

Now that he could actually look at his face, he could somehow understand why his mother fell for him to begin with. Enemy aside, he was quite handsome, that much Connor had to acknowledge. Especially his eyes. Sharp, calculating, dark eyes that made Connor very curious, curious about if this man could show real emotions like a real human. And his silver long hair made him look so much like an old fox, wary and keen, always trying to find weaknesses in his enemies.

Not to mention he was his father. So Connor decided that he wanted to find out more about this man before eventually killing him.

“Father,” he heard himself saying, rather flatly.

“Connor,” said the older man, “Any last words?”

Honestly, he should have felt really threatened by now. But somehow, his instinct told him that he wasn’t going to die after all. At least not today. Not by Haytham’s hands.

“Wait,” he said.

“A poor choice,” tutted Haytham, slightly amused.

Then he raised his hand. His hidden blade visible, shining, reflecting the winter sun.

Connor swiftly pushed him away with hands, then his foot. He bounced back with the force of his waist.

They started circling, eyeing each other. Like two beasts sniffing their opponents.

Haytham started defending his Templar brothers, making Connor realize that from his perspective, their actions were completely justifiable. However much he despised their erroneous ways and poor excuses, Connor himself could understand, or even respect a little their reasoning. It was true that Haytham, along with his Templar minions, sought power and domination. But it was also possible that they sincerely believed their ideals. At least, that was what he saw in the older man’s eyes.

According to what little he knew about his father prior to today, either from Kaniehtí:io or other elders from the village, Haytham Kenway was an evil man. He lied. He cheated. He killed. He used every trick up his sleeves to get what he wanted, regardless the harm he caused. Maybe it was true. But he was also a man with a heart, with certain genuineness, with the ability to care and to love.

He was sure, there must be something, either his look or his personality that made his mother willing to be with him, and even to bear his child.

This was his first mistake, when he reflected on these events later. He tried to see Haytham through his mother’s eyes.

Thus, despite his ambivalence about whether to trust the man or not, not only did he not try to kill him, he also agreed to work with him in retrieving the supplies that had been stolen by Benjamin Church.

 

 

_II._

He could hear someone approaching from miles away.

So Haytham climbed up onto the sill and waited.

Seconds later, his idiot of a son just waltzed into the church from the front door, without even an attempt to be quiet.

This is infuriating. Most infuriating. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Haytham didn’t found out he actually had a son until after Bridewell Prison. Suffice to say that the boy’s surname was a big giveaway. He wasn’t sure how he should feel; especially the child was he and Ziio’s. Surprised that he had a son at all? Nostalgic about the little amount of time he had spent with his mother? Annoyed that his own son had single-handedly destroyed half of his Templar infrastructure in the colonies? Curious that how him and his mother had been?

So many emotions.

So many distractions.

For goodness’ sake, he had to remind himself so many times that the young Assassin had killed three of his Templar brothers: William, John, and Thomas. He was the enemy.

But now he saw him, a young man that reminded him of the wolves in the Frontier, wild and dangerous. Despite himself, Haytham felt the slightest proud at how well his son had turned out to be.

However, mostly, he was just curious. Really curious.

He decided to spare Connor’s life, just so that he would have time to get to know him better.

So he pulled that little stunt that he found rather amusing, and then tried to reason with the younger man. Fortunately, they came to an agreement.

Even though he hated to admit that, but he felt the slightest bit of relief.

 

They followed the trails of the convoy and managed to capture one of the cart drivers, despite the boy’s idiotic waggery. They interrogated him, and found out that the rest of the convoy would be unloading cargos in a camp north from there.

Then Haytham blasted the poor man’s face with a single bullet from his flintlock.

Connor’s angry protest was easily dismissed. He should have known better by now that loose ends equalled potential threats. The boy was then sent to track down the rest of the convoy, despite his great annoyance.

Without waiting for Connor to leave, Haytham started going through the dead man’s pockets. If he could find out where the mercenaries usually operated, maybe that would also be where Church had been hiding, just in case the boy failed.

He eventually found a piece of wax paper in the man’s coat. Even though it was a bit smudged, the stamp looked awfully like the one he saw at De Lancey’s Imports & Goods.

_So New York it is_ , thought Haytham.

“Hey! What’re you doing there sneaking about?” yelled a heavily-accented voice from behind.

Haytham immediately spun and had his sword at the ready.

There were seven armed mercenaries, walking towards him with their weapons drawn, and trying to look menacing.

Haytham snorted. Then he whipped his blade towards his closest enemy. The man didn't even have time to react before his head started rolling.

The rest of them shouted and snarled, forming a circle around the Templar.

But his sword was like lightning, striking the enemy where they least expected. It was graceful, yet deadly. Seconds later, three more of his opponents were lying lifeless on the ground. Their blood was a striking contrast to the pure and white snow that was everywhere.

However, when he was about to stabbed another man on the stomach, something hit him at the back of the knee, causing him to jerk, and fall.

“Aha!” One of those men stuck a blade to his back. “Don’t move. Or I’ll put a hole in ya.”

“What should we do with him? Kill him?” asked another man.

“Nah,” said the first man. “Let’s take him back to Rotten Tooth.”

_Splendid. Now I need to be rescued by my foolish son. And I’ll never be able to live it down,_ thought Haytham, grudgingly.

 

Unfortunately, he was right.

The moment the first punch landed on his mouth, Connor leaped out of some bush nearby like a wolf, with his tomahawk smashing one of his captors’ head.

The other mercenaries stood still for a moment, shocked. Haytham took the chance to knock down the one holding his confiscated sword and pistol with a clean snap of the neck, and stole back the weapons.

However, he didn’t even need to worry about the dozen mercenaries rushing in out of nowhere. Connor, apparently, was handling himself quite well. Wherever his tomahawk reached, there were scream and blood. His fighting style was so different and unique and nothing Haytham had ever seen before. He fought like a beast, primal and brutal, yet efficient and dangerous. He growled and roared, with blood spilled and enemies destroyed.

And Haytham found it very intriguing.

Alas, it was no time to sit back and watch. He needed to get back to New York to arrange a search for Church as soon as possible.

And no, he would never admit it was because the humiliation of being saved by his son was too much for him to face.

So he said, “Once you dealt with these louts, meet me in New York.”

“What?” said Connor, incredulously, without losing any breath. “You mean to just leave? Now?” He pulled back his tomahawk from a man’s face and kicked his body aside.

“If you can’t handle a couple of mercenaries, then we’ve really no business working together,” said Haytham, as if it was most natural.

Then he jogged to one of the horses by a small cabin and mounted it, pretending he didn’t hear Connor grumbling “Unbelievable.”

The horse neighed, and then started sprinting to the south, leaving behind the sounds of weapons clashing, enemies screaming, and bodies dropping.

 

 

_III._

Upon hearing the events in the Frontier, to Connor’s surprise, Achilles remained silent for a while. Then he told him to be wary of the Templar’s scheme, not to kill him, but to try to win him over. And that was that.

When he arrived at the New York harbour a month later, a shadowy figure strolled towards him in a familiar patronizing manner.

“Evening Connor,” said the man. “I see you made it here in one piece.”

Connor shot back, without missing a beat, “Recovered from your beating then?”

And with dark satisfaction, he saw Haytham pursed his lips, swallowing another snarky retort as well as his own pride.

According to Haytham’s discreet investigation, Church was supposedly holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. So they decided to use the night as their cover, and swiftly moved towards their destination on rooftops.

In midst of their heated bickering along their way, Connor was surprised to find out that Haytham was as curious towards him as him towards the older man. And that, was the reason why they hadn’t stick their blade to each other’s throat just yet.

Although Connor also had to admit, his father’s argument regarding the Templars’ ideals and the bitter reality made a lot of sense to him. He wanted his people to be free, free as how they had been for centuries. But that possibility seemed to gradually become a dream, and eventually a fantasy. Even if Washington won in the end, even if they were all free from the Crown, there would just be another white men’s government lording over them, forcing them to give up their sacred lands.

But that didn’t mean he, Ratonhnhaké:ton, would stop fighting.

 

They reached the brewery without incidents. However, apparently Church was expecting to be chased by either his former co-conspirators or the Assassin, he changed the guards to faces unfamiliar to Haytham, forcing them to try to disguise Connor as one of them so that they could slip past.

“Very well. I will wait here then.” Haytham simply just squat by the wall.

Connor found it physically painful to not to roll his eyes. “Of course you will,” he said, before turning to the main street.

“Oh I'm sorry,” said Haytham, sarcastically. “Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?”

Connor just ignored him, and set out to find an off duty guard to steal uniform from.

When Connor returned from tracking down the guard, snapping his neck, stripping him off his clothes and changing into it, and hiding his own clothes in a haystack nearby, Haytham merely looked at him with one of his eyebrows raised. He swore he could even hear that unsaid “Took you long enough” somewhere.

When picking a lock inside the brewery, Haytham offhandedly mentioned he had wondered what Ziio might have said about him and what his life might have been like had he not left her. When being told that Ziio was dead long ago, he even looked utterly astonished, and maybe a bit sad. And he resolutely denied he ordered the attack on their village 20 years ago.

Connor could not help but started to wonder, just a little, about whether he was involved in that disastrous night or not.

 

Church was long gone.

What was waiting for them was a clever trap to lose the tail.

Connor exchanged a knowing look with Haytham, pulled out his tomahawk, and leaped forward to plant it on some mercenary’s face before his opponent could even move.

He glanced over to see how the older man was faring, and immediately found his fighting style rather fascinating. Unlike himself, Haytham fought like he was dancing. He was always light on his feet, swift to move. An ordinary sword was turned into a lightning bolt in his hand. He stabbed, stroke, blocked and waved with deadly precision and an elegant flavour. Connor wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out not breaking a sweat after a brutal fight like this.

They cleaned out the mercenaries in no time, and found out where Church was headed from the imposter before Haytham mercilessly ended his life.

Before Connor could properly scold him again, several other mercenaries appeared on the balcony, aiming their muskets at them. Instinctually, he pulled Haytham to the side, and took cover behind a rather large crate.

Then something exploded and the brewery became a sea of flames.

He tried to run up to the balcony but something collapsed. He then had to run through the burning building to find a way around. There was no time to think. All he could do was keep running, and keep breathing. Though he knew Haytham was up there, probably safer than he was right now.

His assumption was slightly different than reality. His father was cornered by two mercenaries who were foolish enough to trap themselves in the building. They were stalemated.

Until a burning beam decided to crash a hole on the plank floor. And then the three of them were gone.

For a second, Connor thought his heart had stopped. He rushed over, only to find the mercenaries gone, probably engulfed by the fire, and Haytham hanging by the edge of the hole, holding on the floor with only his left hand. The older man looked at him, pleadingly, with flames dancing in his dark eyes.

It was this exact moment, Connor recalled later, that he felt something was tugged inside him, that he felt a stabbing pain in his chest that told him what might happen if he refuse to save the man. It was a small hint of affection. However, unbeknownst to him, it might not be the kind he was expecting.

So he gave Haytham his hands, and pulled him up.

It wasn’t after he burst the two of them out of that locked window and into the filthy cold water below that Connor started to realize that he didn’t want the older man dead now, that he wouldn’t mind continuing the bickering with him as long as they didn’t end up throttling each other, that it was actually nice to have him be his side for a change, that he would never forget the warmth of his body and the smell of his perspiration.

 

“Church has at least a day ahead on us.” Haytham gritted his teeth. “We must move quickly if we're to catch him.” He couldn’t help but shuddered, due to the coldness of his wet clothes.

“I have a ship we can use. Meet me on the pier when you're ready,” said Connor, before starting to walk away.

“Wait,” said Haytham, grabbing his elbow. “Where are you going?”

Connor turned and scowled at him, but he didn’t throw off his hand. “To find a tavern,” he answered.

“If you promise not to throw one of your temper tantrums, you can come to my villa to clean up and eat,” proposed Haytham. “We’ll leave when ready.”

Although the offer was tempting, Connor still eyed the man suspiciously, trying to determine if it was another Templar scheme.

“Oh come now.” Haytham rolled his eyes. “Really?”

“How do I know –”

“No, you won’t be ambushed by Templars the moment you walk through the front door, or when you’re bathing, or whenever, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” said Haytham, exasperated. “I gave you my words, child. And I intend to keep it.”

“Fine,” said Connor, reluctantly.

 

 

_IV._

The Kenway Villa did not look like the den of the Grand Master Templar of the Colonial rite at all. There was no golden statue of the Grand Master himself in the courtyard, no extravagant Corinthian pillars or marble floor, no priceless Renaissance art pieces occupying the walls. Rather, it was elegantly decorated in a minimal fashion, and just downright homely. Other than building his Templar kingdom in the colonies, decorating this villa had been Haytham’s favourite pet project.

He was sorting out documents and ledgers on his mahogany desk when Connor walked in. And Haytham couldn’t help but narrow his eyes, so as to take a good look at him.

He had changed back into his Assassin’s robe now. But his hair was untied, still dripping water here and there. His face flushed, most likely due to the hot bath he took. Haytham could even see the steam evaporating from his bronze skin.

It was quite a sight.

So he put down the paper in his end, and gestured Connor to sit by the small coffee table by the wall. “I see you’ve bathed,” he said, walking towards said table himself. “The housekeeper made us some ham sandwich. Thought you might need it after all the ruckus at the brewery.”

“Yes,” said Connor, awkwardly, as he sat down as well. “Thank you, father.” He then grabbed one of the sandwiches and took a hesitant bite.

Haytham sighed and rolled his eyes, then proceeded to take one himself.

After a minute or two of them silently eating, he then offhandedly picked up the wine bottle on the side and poured himself a glass. “Wine?” he offered.

“Um…”

Haytham cocked his eyebrows at the answer. “Have you ever drunk before?”

“Godfrey, one of the lumbers at the homestead, took me to the Inn for drinks once,” recalled Connor. “I drank some ale, but I did not like it.”

“Well, this –” Haytham lifted the bottle and showed Connor its tag, “this is different from that rubbish they sell at taverns and inns.” He then eyed the boy up and down, and put the bottle closer to himself. “But I suppose I would rather not see you topple and fall into the ocean later, because I tend to believe my life is worth more than a glass of wine, no matter how fine it is.”

“Are you implying a bit of alcohol would defeat me, father?” Connor gave him a challenging look.

“What I’m _implying_ ,” said Haytham, “is I do not wish to risk my life for a brash boy such as you to taste – HEY!” He tried to grab the glass from Connor’s hand, but the younger man was quicker. He swilled down the whole glass in one second, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at Haytham defiantly.

“You little fool,” cursed Haytham. “You’ve just wasted some perfectly fine wine!”

“No.” Connor quickly denied. “I just answered to your challenge – Oh. I feel…my head…” He pressed his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes.

Haytham sighed, and poured some water from the jug on the table into the other glass. “I hate to say ‘I told you so.’” No, he most certainly did not. “Here, drink some water.” He pushed the water glass towards Connor.

Connor looked up. His eyes were already hazed. His cheek turned blossom pink. His red lips parted slightly, just to let in more air.

And Haytham was stunned by the sight, by how _delicious_ Connor looked.

_No, it’s a most unbecoming thought. He’s your son goddamnit! Not to mention he saved your life, not once, but three times!_ His logical part of the brain immediately screamed at him.

So he restrained himself and just sat there, waiting for Connor to slowly regain his composure.

But he knew he couldn’t kid himself. The Pandora’s Box was opened.

And it could not be closed again.


	2. Two Cats in a Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternating between Haytham!voice and Connor!voice proved harder than I thought it would be. And I don't think I've put enough angst in the chapter. But anyhow, that's the best I can do now.
> 
> This chapter may contain minor spoiler for AC: Forsaken.

_Connor –7 January 1778_

It is a mistake to take Haytham on board.

I should’ve known that His Majesty would start belittling the ship, the crew, Mr Faulkner – EVERYTHING! – the moment he got on the ship.

“Did you just drag this boat up from the seafloor yesterday?”

“Where on earth did you find this group of drunkards? I don’t think any of them can even walk straight!”

“So this was the ship I encountered 25 years ago and you were on it? Now I know how we managed to escape.”

Why can’t he just shut his trap?!

Yes, I expected some patronising remarks before I offer the trip, but little did I know…

Maybe I should just left him at the burning brewery…

But no, who am I kidding? I couldn’t have done that even to my worst enemy, not to mention my own father.

And I’m having the strangest feelings towards my father ever since that incident. Feelings that I cannot comprehend.

I found myself often searching for his presence. Not because I’ve been on guard against him – though part of me still am – but because just the sight of him calms me almost immediately. But at the same time, every time I look at him, I can feel something…unsettling in my chest, as though there’s water boiling inside me.

It’s just odd. Why would I feel this way?

 

 

_Haytham – 9 January 1778_

The third day trapped on this blasted ship. I miss solid land already, though my quarter is not as revolting as I expected. It’s too small for my taste, but at least it’s clean.

I’m getting increasingly restless now. The thought that the traitor is getting away irritates me to no end. How much I’m willing to pay to smash his stupid face with my boots and make him swallow his own teeth!

Unfortunately, I’m no longer in control of the pursuit, much to my dismay. I only have a minimal knowledge as to sailing. The ocean has always been a mystery to me. All those talks about tides and currents and winds and sails are outright baffling. And the waves sometimes make me queasy – not that I’ll ever show it in front of everyone. It reminded me too much of that journey on the _Providence_. It may also be as life-changing. I sure hope Connor knows what he’s doing, for I do prefer not to die under the ocean.

I still can’t stop thinking about that night, about how he looked after bathing, after that glass of wine. It is WRONG. It is DISGUSTING. And I cannot believe how low I, Haytham Kenway, have sunk. Sodomy is bad enough, now apparently I have topped it off with…

When I saw him in his captain’s uniform, hands firmly gripping the helm, I did not think about how comfortable he was sailing, or how much longer would we be able to catch up on Church (that rotten bastard!); rather, I was thinking how handsome he looked in that uniform, and how strong his hands were…

I have been trying to get this filthy thought out of my head. I convince myself this is merely a moment’s weakness.

Or so I hope.

Fatherly affection will have already jeopardized my plan enough, but this – this is INCEST! I will be burning in hell for a thousand years should I go any further! But shall I be condemned after my death because of it, I am willing to accept whatever punishment waiting for me.

This is ironic, most ironic. I am sure the Father of Understanding must be laughing at me right now. I would’ve laughed as well has it not fallen to me. Or maybe he’s disappointed. However, I can’t care less about pleasing the Father now. I am a Templar, the Grand Master Templar of the Colonial rite, and I believe the hypocrisy and weakness of humanity. But now, I become the living testament.

 

 

_Connor – 10 January 1778_

Something odd happened today.

I was climbing the stairs to the upper deck when father was coming down. Accidentally, our arms brushed. Strangely, I didn’t even flinch. Rather, he was the one who almost lost his balance and fell off the stairs, had I not caught him in time. I still don’t know what has happened to him. He looked weary. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days.

Before I opened my mouth to ask, he shot me a look that was meant to be menacing, but to me, it looked more like panic if anything.

Then he fled.

Yes, I used the word “fled.” I didn’t even know Haytham Kenway was capable of fleeing.

As much as I hate to admit, I’m starting to feel concerned for the old man. I have never seen him behaving like this. It makes me…sad?

He’s usually so infuriatingly composed, sneering at everyone (especially me). Now he’s just miserable. I can feel something has been tormenting him. Maybe it’s because he’s on, shall I say, enemy territory? But I’ve seen him at the mercenaries’ camp. He was still so rebellious and arrogant when someone was about to plant their fists on him. So I do not believe this journey is the reason. But maybe it’s the sea that makes him uneasy? Though I don’t think this alone can agonise him so.

However, it is not my place to guess.

I do hope he may talk to me about this, since I’m the only ally he can get now.

 

 

_Haytham – 13 January 1978_

Sleep is harder and harder to come by lately. I have been having dreams (or nightmares as I prefer to call them) that wake me from my slumber and prevent me from closing my eyes again. I would lie in bed for hours, soaked in sweat and aroused, before exhaustion finally claimed me once more.

I feel tired, drained, as if all life has been sucked out of me. What’s more, I feel trapped, not only by this bloody vessel, but also by my own treacherous mind.

Now the only thing that can make me feel better is I watch the traitor gurgle in his own blood in front of me. I really hope it can happen sooner.

I’ve spent a lot of time in self-loathing now, but it did not help. I dare not venture onto the deck, even though I’d love some fresh air, for I fear I will lose what little control I have left for myself. I do not think Connor has found out what has been on my mind yet, though he did express his concern on multiple occasions. Foolish boy. His bullheadedness has really gotten on my nerves, just like his mother has done 25 years ago. He’s treading on dangerous territory, and he has no idea what he’s dealing with. Yet, he keeps pushing, fighting, for something that he can’t even comprehend.

Ah, but isn’t it how he’s always been? So stubborn, so earnest in fighting for freedom for his people…even though deep down he know his people will not have a place in this would-be nation, not when the white men have guns and cannons, whereas the natives only have spears and tomahawks.

I should help him see the error in his ways, despite my current…predicament, for I have wronged him in so many ways. Maybe it’s still not too late to make amends.

But first, I need some sleep, which, hopefully, is without dreams of me and Connor being in…compromising positions…

 

 

_Connor – 15 January 1778_

It seems father has stopped avoiding me. He also appears more like his usual self now. But there’re some differences – he appears less conceited and more patient. He even asked me about my life in the homestead over tea this afternoon.

Yes, he did. I thought my ears had tricked me when I heard him. Achilles would have warned me that this might be another of his schemes, but he seemed to genuinely care. He did tell me he did not feign affection after all, and I tend to believe him.

So I told him. Bits and pieces. About my training with Achilles. About how I got to be the captain of the _Aquila_. About the things I’ve done for the people living there.

Oddly, I feel relieved. I realized I’m glad that I got to share my stories with my father, though he sometimes seemed lost in thoughts. When I asked him about it, he didn’t answer, just shook his head with a sad and weary look on his face. That look made my heart did something strange, something that hurt. So I touched him on the forearm to comfort him. But he jumped like last time, as if my fingers were burning him. I asked him what the matter was, but he just said he was tired and then retired to his quarter.

I do not believe him. It’s clear that whatever has been bothering him before hasn’t gone away yet. I just wish he could let me help him.

 

 

_Haytham – 18 January 1778_

At this point, I have to assume that perverted thought of mine will not go away any time soon. And I might as well live with it.

That poor boy still has no idea what has become of his father. Sometimes I wish I’ve killed him the first time we met at the church, so that I don’t have to be tormented like this. Or maybe some part of me still want to kill him, right here, on the ship, regardless the consequences. But I cannot do that. Not when I saw his eyes, filled with concern and affection. Perhaps, eventually we will be forced to point our blades at each other because of the war. But when that happens, I am fully prepared to die by his hands.

He told me about his first encounter with Charles today. And I was astonished. First of all, his little expedition was completely unsanctioned. I’ve specifically told him that we ought to focus on more practical matters, like building the Order on the colonies. Also, apparently, that little unfortunate encounter has damaged Connor so that he becomes threatened by simply being touched.

But come to think of that, I don’t recall him flinching when being touched by me…Curious…

In any regard, I still don’t think it was Charles who burnt down the village. Despite his overzealousness, he was not as, shall I say, impulsive and violent as he is nowadays. But how could he do that to a five-year-old boy? Maybe the fact that said boy turned out to be my son has clouded my judgement, but I can’t help but feel anger boiling inside me. I have always known Charles despises the natives. He was not happy when I asked him to look for Ziio, even less so when I told him about our relationship. Now I see why Connor has so much hatred towards Charles. I would too if I were in his position.

Maybe, instead of me feeding Connor our Templar’s ideals, it has been the other way around. Maybe it’s because of the guilt. Maybe it’s because I want to have him as my own despite everything. I just don’t know anymore.

 

 

_Connor – 20 January 1778_

I finally understand what I have been feeling towards Haytham, my own father. And it is horrible and disgusting to say the least.

I was telling him about the midnight ride with Paul (I remembered it was the part when we arrived at Samuel Prescott’s house) when he chuckled. Not the smirk or sneer I was used to, but the indication of him being genuinely amused by what I said. And I was stunned. My head went blank. The only thought in my mind was how beautiful he looked and how much I wanted to kiss those lips…

Then it hit me, hard, like a cannonball in the gut. Although I’ve never felt this way before, from what Norris told me when he talked about Myriam, it was a feeling only lovers would have. But Haytham is my father, not my lover. I cannot understand why I am having such feelings. Since we are blood-related, it should not be possible to have such feelings. But the reality is, I am having those feelings towards him, and I –

Never mind. It’s useless to ask why at this point. Maybe it’s a punishment from the Spirits because I’ve killed too many. I don’t know.

How am I going to face my father? To face Achilles? To face my fellow Assassins? I’m infatuated with the Grand Master who is also my father. I hate myself for being corrupted so easily. There must be something wrong with me.

Anyway, I should probably reduce interaction with my father, until I can cleanse this filthy thought from my head.

 

 

_Haytham – 21 January 1778_

Connor must have known my darkest secret by now, for I have no other explanations why he started avoiding me as though I was the Plague. Does that mean he will be more inclined to kill me from now on?

What a shame. I’ve started to be accustomed to his company by now. Though his bullheadedness sometimes could be infuriating, he is more articulate and cultured than I originally expected. And his laugh is a joy to watch, even though it’s rare.

He reminds me too much of the Haytham Kenway some two decades ago. Once upon a time, I was the man who killed Braddock for slaughtering innocents, the man who Ziio fell in love with. How much have I changed throughout the years, after the monastery on Mount Ghebel Eter. But it has to be done, does it not? It is what’s helped me build what I have today. It has gotten me this far. It must be the right thing to do.

Nonetheless, I can still remember that reproachful look on Connor’s face when I killed that cart driver in front of him, perhaps too vividly. I can’t help but doubt myself. It seems that Connor doesn’t need to kill everyone who is in his way to accomplish anything he’s accomplished so far, and maybe he doesn’t need it in the future either.

My heart has been numbed by all the killings. But perhaps, it is still capable of feelings. Not the guilt I feel about taking lives, but about how I must have failed Connor, and how much I care about him –

Oh no. This can’t be happening. I CAN’T be in love with my own son, who is now disgusted by me. I can’t…

 

 

_Connor – 22 January 1778_

I just can’t seem to control myself. I can’t stop looking for him, or at him. I dream about him. I become so distracted I can’t concentrate. The crew has noticed something wrong with me, though only Mr Faulkner has voiced his concerns. I told him it might be that the food I ate wasn’t clean, though I don’t think he completely believe me.

And father must have sensed something as well. The looks he gave me, as if he was disappointed at me. It tears me apart to think that he –

No this just isn’t right. He’s my FATHER damn it!

HE’S MY FATHER!

HE’S MY FATHER!

HE’S MY FATHER!

HE’S MY FATHER!

[Torn page]

 

 

_Haytham – 24 January 1778_

It could have ended better.

After I beat Church’s face into a bloody pulp with my bare hands in a kind of rage that was frightening even to me, Connor stepped in and ended his pathetic life with a knife to the liver, though it still gave him enough time to give up the location of the stolen supplies. Then we went to the island and retrieve most of the supplies, though the traitor must have sold part of them before he scurried away with his tail between his legs.

The whole thing has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. We once had a dream, to build a new nation of order and peace. Now the Templar infrastructure has crumbled, no thanks to my idiot son. Most of my brothers in arms since 25 years ago are now dead. Church betrayed us, and then was brought to justice. Charles is the only one around now. Unfortunately, I do not trust him as much as I used to.

What have I done wrong? I cannot help but ask myself. I still believe in our cause more than anything. But our methods may not be as sound as I'd love to think. Sweeping everything in our path has eventually left us with nothing, no matter how noble our cause is. It seems the ends do not justify the means after all, and I’m all out of options…

 

 

_Connor – 27 January 1778_

It seems that I can calm myself slightly better now, though the presence or absence of father still has dramatic effects on me. He is, after all, a very noticeable character.

He has been brooding since we returned from the Martinez Island. It must have been a great hit for him, being betrayed by his friend and Templar brother. He looks even wearier than before, and doesn’t even bother with his sarcasm anymore.

I feel really bad for him, seeing him like that. Despite all the wrongs that he has done in the names of order and peace, as well as his position as the Grand Master, he is but a human being. I can tell he’s been having doubts, for the fire of conviction in his eyes has died down a little.

But today he told me that he still believe the Templar cause was the most righteous, that our Assassins were nothing but naive dreamers who refused see the weakness in human nature. I told him he has just given up. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry at my remark.

Instead, he said, “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” He also asked me if I would entrust that kind of power, as well as the welfare of my people in the hands of a small group of colonists.

“Better them than you Templars,” I snapped.

Again, he completely surprised me. He said, “Well, that’s why we have you, Connor. You are the moral compass we desperately need.”

I asked him if he was trying to sway me towards his Templar cause.

He laughed. I couldn’t believe it. He laughed at how “naive” I was. He said that it was not about affiliations or loyalty, that it was about the bigger picture, about what this would-be nation truly needed.

“Then you can stop favouring Lee and support Washington instead,” I countered.

When I thought I couldn’t be surprised by him anymore, he did it again. For the fourth time in our 5 minutes conversation. He said, “Even though I do not trust Charles as much as I used to, I still see no reason for me to favour Washington, because I hate to see this new nation becomes a failure like him.”

“Then I can’t see why I should betray the commander and join your cause either,” I said. “Not to mention you lot burnt down my village and killed my mother.” Even if Charles Lee did not commit those atrocities towards my people, I still cannot do that, because I made a promise to Achilles, and a commitment to the Brotherhood.

But most importantly, I cannot face my father, not when my head is filled with filthy images of him and me.

 

 

_Haytham – 31 January 1778_

I finally figure out what has been going on with Connor.

I saw that look on his face when I accidentally glanced over. A look that I has been most acquainted with, unfortunately. It was a wanting look, clouded with sadness and self-hatred, as though I was the Apple of Eden (the one in the Bible, that is), and he was Eve, tempted to come closer, to get a taste, but in the meantime too afraid of the consequences, too consumed by shame.

Funny how this little game of fate has turned out. Father and son, both in love with each other. Yet our blood is the greatest obstacle.

But I should not toy with this idea any further. We are treading on thin ice now. The temptation is great, much too great. I’m afraid I would eventually succumb to it, drown myself in his sweet, tender kiss, and his strong, muscular arms –

No, I should not think about that. Even though we are both consenting adults, and our actions will not be hurting anyone, I ought not to get on with it. I cannot do that to Connor, and to Ziio. I have owed them so, so much. This is the one line I should never cross.

But what if Connor makes his advances? What should I do then? What will I do? Will I even be able to reject him when it comes to that? And if I do, will it give him more reasons to destroy my plan?

I have never felt so unsure in my entire life, not until this point.

 

 

_Connor – 2 February 1778_

Father has been acting very strange lately. Strange beyond my comprehension. One second he would be warm and friendly, the next he would be stiff and sink into a foul mood all over again. I wonder what has happened to him. I tried to probe, but he saw through me almost immediately and just snorted at me.

I’m also feeling rather torn inside. On one hand, I wish he’d just leave me alone, so that I can still have a moment of peace. But on the other hand, when he’s in a good mood, he and I become almost amicable. There are banters and bickering for sure, but they are all harmless. It’s as though he’s a different person, quite the opposite from that calculating, utilitarian and ruthless Grand Master I’ve known for years. It makes fighting the urge to get closer, and to touch him so much more difficult. Every time he gave me a pat on the shoulder, or a touch on the elbow, I have to try very hard not to flinch, or –

OH.

This is not happening, is it? Is he having the same feelings as I am?

But it is wrong, and he must be fully aware of that! It desecrates the memory of mother! Never mind we are still mortal enemies of two opposite causes!

Although it seems we are both having our own doubts now…

But no! Not like this! We’re supposed to bond like father and son do, not like…

I, I need some air…

 

 

_Haytham – 5 February 1778_

It seems Connor is finally aware of the current situation, though I am not sure if I should feel relieved or alarmed.

We are playing this dangerous game now, sniffing and poking for each other’s weakness, without having to succumb to out darkest desire first. I hope he doesn’t budge, for I do not know if my already-weakened self-resolve can resist his advances. The agonising sharp pain of shame, want and lust has become a dull ache of uncertainty.

I haven’t forgotten the fact that perhaps someday, we will be facing each other in a battle of life and death. It makes this complicated bundle of feelings even harder to bear. Despite everything, I want to get to know him and bond with him, either as my son, or as the lover I know I will never have.

And I want to do something for him, anything, to make up for dragging him into this mess in the first place.

 

 

_Connor – 7 February 1778_

I don’t even know if I should laugh or cry now that things have come down to this. Curious what the Spirits have in mind for us.

I can see the same agony and desire in father’s gaze as the ones I have been feeling during this journey. The tension between us is almost visible. Every time we lock eyes. Every time our shoulders brush. Every time either one of us try to say something to the other. It is as if there is some kind of field around us.

And his presence makes me increasingly agitated. There were times I just wanted to forget everything and bite his lips, to make him lose every bit of the infuriating composure he’s so proud of. But I managed to control myself, even though I had to…take care of business afterwards.

The frustration makes me want to scream. This is the first time I’ve actually fallen in love with someone, and that someone turned out to be my own father. I have given my heart to someone I could never have. I am certain father is feeling the same way. But at least he had my mother. He has tasted reciprocated love at some point in his life. And it is not fair.

It seems we have no choice but to pretend there is nothing wrong between us. And if we are to continue our truce and partnership, as well as our father-son relationship in the future, it will be awkward and difficult to say the least.

 

 

_Haytham – 9 February 1778_

Our journey, which has been even more life-changing than I originally expected, has almost come to an end. Connor told me today that we were only one day away from New York. I have to wonder what will happen afterwards, after we return to our own lives.

The first thing I need to do is to deal with Charles. I’ve re-examined what he’s contributed to our cause, and frankly, I should’ve noticed that he’s become harder and harder to discipline. For one, he disregarded of my order and went back to the village without permission. And I can still vividly recall his outburst on the Continental Congress, where he was bitter about Washington was elected as Commander in Chief. Indeed, Charles’ failure in this election has given us a strategic disadvantage. But his impulsiveness has only increased the mistrust and resent among the delegates, which has been an even bigger setback. Additionally, what he did to Connor 20 years ago has provided me a more personal reason to give up my support for him. After my self-reflection during this trip, I’ve come to the conclusion that violence does not necessarily guarantee order. The repressed will eventually rebel, or maybe even start a revolution, just like the one that we have been adding fuel to. And this makes Charles’ violent way unacceptable, for he has jeopardized our noble cause.

However, he has been a loyal friend and ally for more than two decades. And I tend not to think my changed opinion towards him has been biased by my affection towards Connor. I also have to prevent him from wanting to seek revenge from me. This is a delicate situation. Therefore, I should not treat him badly, though I need to strategize carefully.

In terms of Connor, I am still unsure at this point. I find myself gradually leaning towards his methods, though his cause is still as naive as ever. In any regard, that should provide us a common ground the further our cooperation, even though I still think George Washington is a hypocrite if anything.

And on a more personal level, I cannot predict what will eventually happen at the moment, for emotions and feelings are the most volatile and unpredictable. Maybe the love will turn into hatred. Or maybe not. But one thing I’m sure right now is that I no longer desire his death, at least not for furthering our cause.

 

 

_Connor – 10 February 1778_

Mr Faulkner informed me that New York was only hours ahead. I guess that means we have to go back to our lives again. Father and I will have to face each other as enemies again.

I know I must sound like a sentimental fool (that’s what father would’ve said), but I sincerely don’t want to face the nasty reality. The ancient war between the Templars and the Assassins. How many lives has it consumed? How many families has it destroyed? Is it really impossible to put an end to it? This past month with my father did not sway me towards his Templar cause. Rather, I become even more convinced of the possibility of reconciliation by it. As long as we stop trying to kill each other, and instead combine our resources working together to achieve peace, we can accomplish so much more than when we are enemies.

Father has been trying to persuade me to see his reason. And actually, I did. Absolute freedom, the life we used to have as the free children of the Mother, no longer exists. Time has changed. A much larger machine has been working its way to incorporate us. It is my duty as an Assassin to protect my people, THE people from being harmed or swallowed by this machine. And if compromise is the only way to go, so be it.

I am supposed to meet father at his villa when I am ready. But I don’t think I will ever be. Being with him alone sounds disconcerting, and somewhat frightening. So many things can happen. But being apart from him sounds even worse. I’ve learned to enjoy his company by now, though I never show it. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

And the other thing I’m worrying about is how to tell Achilles about our new…arrangement. I’m sure he won’t approve. And he’s the last person in this world I want to let down. How do I convince him that reconciliation is the only way? How do I let him know that it’s more than a childish dream?

Mr Faulkner needs me on deck now. I should probably head up there.


	3. Lovers by Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should never have went to play Pokefusion with a half-written sex scene on my hand, but I really tried...Hope you guys like it.
> 
> Historically, the Sullivan Expedition took place on June 18th, 1779. But for the sake of this story, I have to move it at least 14 months earlier.
> 
> This chapter may contain minor spoilers for AC: Forsaken.

_I._

Charles walked into Haytham's study, when the Grand Master was composing a letter to a Templar agent within the Continental Army demanding certain documents.

“Master Kenway,” he said, in his usual tone of admiration, “how was your trip?”

Haytham slowly put down his quill, and laid his gaze on the man, his best friend, his protégé, his second-in-command. At this very moment, a storm started to brew inside him, dark clouds colliding with each other, lightening and thunders ready to burst.

But he remained his poised facade. Perhaps, it was because the bigger the storm, the calmer it would be before the first drop of rain fell onto the ground.

Instead, he said, “It proved to be fruitful. We caught the traitor and ended his worthless life.”

“What happened to the Assassin?” asked Charles. “How has your truce been working out?”

“We do have the intentions to further our partnership.” Though the truth was far more complicated than that. “Speaking of,” said Haytham, nonchalantly, “I have to inquire you about certain…matters, Charles.”

The tone in Haytham’s voice, as well as his sharp gaze immediately made Charles uneasy. And it showed. His face started to twitch almost unnoticeably.

“Yes, Master Kenway?” he asked.

“Did you, or did you not, went back to the Precursor site without my permission some twenty years ago, after I’d specifically stated that we should abandon the search?”

“Yes…I did.” Charles hesitantly answered.

“Why?”

“I thought those savages must be hiding something, sir! Why else had we been unsuccessful in our search?” He tried to defend himself. “You were - !” He abruptly shut his mouth.

“I was what?” demanded Haytham.

“You were besotted with that woman and refused to see reasons, Haytham!” he blurted out. “You practically left us to our own devices!”

He did have a point, mused Haytham. During the few short months he’d shared with Ziio, he’d often been struggling between spending time with his lover and his obligations and duty within the Order. He had felt guilty at the time, for his failure in satisfying both parties.

“Fine, I can see your point here. I’ll let it pass since it was years ago,” he conceded. “But please tell me you did not set the village on fire, just because you did not find what you seek.”

“What fire?” Charles seemed genuinely confused.

Haytham couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. “Someone burnt the village down to ashes not long after you left.”

“Wha – Who?”

“I cannot give you a definite answer at the moment, but I have my suspicion,” said Haytham, folding his hands on the desk. “Just tell me one more thing, Charles. Did you, or did you not encounter a native boy no more than six years old while you were there?”

Charles swallowed.

“Yes,” he said.

“And what did you do to the boy?”

“I tried to force him to give out the location of his village.”

Though clearly he was still perplexed by his master’s questions regarding the boy, his nervousness started to manifest itself. A thin layer of shimmering sweat started to accumulate on his forehead.

“By doing what?” Haytham pursued.

“By – by strangling him –” he spluttered. “But he was just a damn savage boy! I did what I had to do, Sir!”

“Then you should know that the boy you had your hands wrapped around his neck turned out to be my son, Charles.” Haytham gritted his teeth. His eyes almost spurted fire. His nostrils flared with anger. “The same person who has been destroying out foothold in the colonies. The same person who has been killing our brothers. The same person who wants you dead more than anything.”

Charles’ eyes widened with shock. He hadn’t placed it all together up until this point. And his face went pale upon the realization.

“I knew it was him at Bridewell Prison but I didn’t –”

“Didn’t see that one coming, did you, Charles?” Haytham sneered. “Merely a careless act of violence many years ago. I may have planted the seed, but you, you have managed to create our biggest enemy, my friend. And the Brotherhood owed many thanks to you.”

It was because of this war, he reasoned.

He had dedicated most of his life trying to win it, or trying to prevent the Templars from losing it, and he was fine with it, really. He had been fighting for his ideals after all. But he refused to watch Connor, the only one person he cherished and was still alive, being engulfed by it. And Charles, oh poor old Charles, he had no idea. In fact, just the mere thought of what Charles had done to the boy made his blood boil like nothing he’d ever experienced, not even when he found out what had happened to Jenny or Jim all those years ago. And he had to restrain himself so hard to prevent him from doing something he would no doubt regret later, such as leaping forward and sticking a knife to the man’s throat.

His best friend and second-in-command looked like he just swallowed a dead fish. He wanted to say something to defend himself, but failed miserably.

Haytham sighed wearily. He had never been so disappointed at him before.

“What is your latest assignment for the Continental Army?” he eventually asked.

“To inspect defence in Philadelphia, Sir,” answered Charles, still hadn’t recovered from his master’s wrath.

“Then you better get on with it.” Haytham picked up his quill, and went back to his correspondence, without even looking at him.

“Understood, Sir.”

With that, Charles exited the room, almost too hastily.

 

 

_II._

It took Connor a good five days to bring all the recovered supplies back to Valley Forge.

When he got there, Commander Washington was busy writing something. A letter perhaps?

“Commander,” said Connor, standing outside of his tent.

“Ah, Connor.” Washington immediately put down his quill, stood up, and started to walk towards him. “Any luck on the supplies?”

“Unfortunately we weren’t able to recover all of them.” Connor pointed to the convoy that was entering the encampment. “But Church has been brought to justice.”

Washington turned to look at the Assassin, eyebrows raised.

“‘We?’”

Connor sighed at the Commander’s inquisitive tone. “I have been working with my father,” he said. “It so happened that the Templars have wanted him punished as well.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“He’s been helpful.” And then some, Connor silently added.

“Although I have no idea whatsoever regarding the business between you Assassins and the Templars, I do hope you can make peace with your father,” said Washington, looking out at the winter landscape. “He is a capable man after all, and can be our powerful ally.”

Connor could not possibly respond to that comment. So he just forced a smile.

“In any event,” Washington turned to face him again, “your contribution will not go unappreciated. In return, I shall pressure the Continental Navy to pass your official appointment as soon as possible.”

Connor couldn’t help but frown. With Washington’s recommendation, he submitted his application right after he cleared his name by killing Hickey in New York almost two years ago. Just exactly how long did it have to take them to give him the official title as Captain?

“Might I ask why is it taking so long, Commander?” He tried very hard to not sound accusatory.

The Commander let out an exhausted sigh. “I ask myself that question more often than you think, Connor.” There was a flash of guilt fleeting across his tired face. “Regrettably, many of my peers still can’t see past a man’s skin colour.”

He looked at the Assassin, and continued, “As I’m sure you can understand, Connor, what we are fighting here is not just a war against the Crown, but a prolonged struggle against prejudice, discrimination and oppression. It will take years, decades, centuries even, to achieve the kind of freedom that you and I both long for.”

These words lit a torch of hope in Connor’s heart. They reminded him why he chose to support the Commander in the first place, and why he continued down the path that many, even his own father, deemed naive and fruitless.

If only Haytham could see what kind of inspiration Washington was like he did…

Washington cleared his throat purposely, snapping Connor out of his thoughts.

“My apologies, Commander,” said Connor, rather embarrassed, “I was just thinking about what to do next.”

“And?”

“I am to meet with my father again soon. Perhaps we can devise a plan to figure out the enemy’s next move.”

“Excellent,” Washington nodded at him approvingly. “Then you better get on with it.”

“Good day to you, Commander.”

With that, Connor turned and walked towards the stable.

 

 

_III._

“Bastard…That sorry, pathetic excuse of a –”

When Connor walked into Haytham’s study an hour earlier than he was supposed to, without even bothering to knock or to have the housekeeper noticed his father first, the Grand Master was staring at the two pieces of paper in front of him, as though he was trying to light those documents on fire by the sheer anger of his.

“Father! I think we should –”

Connor’s brisk pace came to a halt.

Haytham’s head snapped up. He looked at his son with a minute hint of panic in his eyes, while his hands tried to nonchalantly shove the pages under the pile of correspondences on his desk.

“Good morning, boy,” he forced himself to quirk up his lips, and crossed his hands in front of him. “Walking on air now are we?”

“Something wrong?” asked Connor, brows furrowed.

“Just some minor annoyance. None of your concern.” Haytham snapped, maybe too hastily for his liking.

“Of course.” His son just stared at him impassively.

His Templar mind told him he should keep those bits of valuable information for the right time to achieve the desired effects on Connor. But then, his affections for the younger man kicked in, and he was getting slightly uncomfortable under Connor’s piercing gaze.

Eventually, he gave in, and sighed heavily.

“Fine.”

Then he resignedly dug out those two pieces of paper from the pile, and handed them to Connor, who was now sitting opposite of him, and looking at him intensely.

He watched the colour on his son’s face disappeared all of a sudden, lips pursing up into a thin line.

“What are these?” demanded Connor, looking up at him with blazes in his dark eyes.

“One is an order issued by George Washington to destroy Iroquois villages when he was in the Virginia Militia twenty years ago.” Haytham pinched his nose bridge. “The other is a correspondence sent to John Sullivan to discuss a mass campaign against your people. It was intercepted by our agent just yesterday.”

“But the Commander…I just spoke to him before…He promised…”muttered Connor, who was enraged and confused and pained at the same time.

He then scowled at the Grand Master suspiciously. “Why are you showing these to me?” he questioned.

Haytham was torn between sighing and rolling his eyes.

“What you should be asking is why I show you now, instead of in front of Washington so that you can sever all ties with him then and there.” He looked at the Assassin straight in the eye. “The only reason that I’m not using those incriminating documents as leverage is because I do care, child, even though you may think otherwise.”

He understood what the young man was feeling all too well. It was the same feelings of betrayal and hurt when he first realized it was Reginald who had betrayed his family and had lied to him for years. It was as if nothing in this world was real anymore.

Connor mused for a moment, and then suddenly stood up. “I need to warn them. We still have time.” He raised his chin towards Haytham. “And you are coming with me.”

“Are you mad?” Haytham stood up as well, completely shocked. “Do you know what kind of monster I am for your people?”

“You are not a monster,” said Connor, sternly. “And they need to see that.”

“And you are being laughably naive –”

“God damn it, Haytham! You saved them!” shouted Connor, fist clenching. “Or are you just afraid of letting people see you, the Grand Master, actually have a heart?”

Haytham almost winced at the younger man’s words. Almost.

It was true. He was used to not care enough. His only focus was supposed to be the Templar cause. Others were merely meaningless noises. And he had successfully convinced people that.

A long time ago, he made an exception for Ziio, which made his brothers suspect his weakness. Afterwards, he had gradually slipped back into the image of the cold-hearted ruthless Templar with ease.

Until now.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go with you. No need to be so melodramatic.” He threw up his hands in defeat. “Just let me prepare my horse.”

 

They rode for half a day, mostly in silence, both deep in thought. By nightfall, they decided to camp in the woods for the night.

After a simple meal of roasted hares, exhaustion from the ride easily claimed Haytham as soon as he fell to his sleeping mat.

However, being the light sleeper that he was (something that he was rather proud of), he was awaken by the rustling sounds of clothing shortly afterwards.

He laid there listening for a few seconds. The night was quiet, except the slow breathing of their sleeping horses and the occasional rustles of leaves outside. He turned his head and scanned his surrounding with his Eagle Vision. Nothing.

It was until then he realized it was actually Connor tossing around next to him. So he hissed, warningly, “Stop worming, Connor. You’re waking up the dead.”

The Assassin froze for a few seconds, then grunted, “I can’t fall asleep.”

“Why not?”

Connor turned around and faced Haytham’s side. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“About?”

Connor was silent at first. Just before Haytham thought he’s given up, he finally started talking.

“I thought if I prevented the revolution from you Templar’s influence, if I could stop you, then the people I supported would do what was right.” His voice was full of such sorrow that almost broke whatever part of a heart that was left in Haytham. “They did, I suppose, do what was right – but what was right for them.”

Haytham couldn’t help but turned towards the younger man. He watched him for a while, then sighed and opened his arms to him.

“Come here, boy,” said Haytham, gently.

Connor blinked.

Then he buried himself into Haytham’s chest and heaved a sigh.

“What should I do now?” he asked. His voice was muffled and almost inaudible.

Haytham smiled bitterly. “I don’t think I should be the person you ask that particular question to,” he said. “I am still your enemy, after all.”

“Enemies don’t hug,” muttered Connor.

The Templar let out a quiet laugh. “I guess that makes us the worst enemies ever existed in human history then.”

Connor looked up at him. His eyes were so dark, bottomless, yet still shimmered with hope.

“I don’t think we are enemies at all,” he whispered.

And then there was something soft and warm landed on Haytham’s lips.

He knew it was going to happen. He could practically see it coming from miles away. But he couldn’t resist. There was something vulnerable and delicate about Connor that he’d never thought he would get to see. And he was lost.

So he opened his mouth and let Connor’s wet tongue slip in.

The kiss was long, and sad, and tender, and lingering. They explored and tasted each other. Connor was a bit clumsy at first, causing their teeth to clack a few times. But eventually he learnt to mimic Haytham’s movements. Their tongues danced around each other in the most beautiful way. And they were both drowned.

It was Haytham who broke the kiss first. He looked at the younger man, who was still dazed, and asked, “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes,” answered Connor almost immediately.

He then started to nip and lick Haytham’s lips, jaw and neck, leaving a wet trail of his skin, and making the older man gasp and pant.

But suddenly Haytham let out a groan and deftly got up, straddling Connor, who was now blinking at him owlishly.

“Let me,” said Haytham, in a throaty voice.

Then he sucked a spot on Connor’s neck, making the Assassin yelp, which was followed by a quick swipe of tongue on the collar bone. Connor let out a small moan.

His nimble fingers started to unbuttoned Connor’s shirt. And his mouth and tongue followed, all the way down his navel. A trail of red spots was visible on Connor’s bronze and sculpted torso. Connor had his fingers entwined with Haytham’s greying hair, ignoring the loosened braid, and gasped deliciously.

Haytham sat up and quickly got rid of his own shirt, then went back to nip one of Connor’s nipples. Connor squeaked, and slightly tugged his hair. Haytham smirked against his chest.

He then put his palm on Connor’s bulging and heated erection, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Connor gave out a sweet moan, and seemed to lose himself for a second. Then he slapped away Haytham’s hand, and started to work on the laces, and kicked his breeches away once he was done.

“Impatient, are we?” laughed Haytham, though his voice was raspy.

He lowered himself, took Connor’s leaking cock in his hand, and dipped his tongue on the slit. Connor shuddered. He then proceeded to lick it like a candy cane, his other hand rolling on the pair of balls. There was an earthy and musky scent that was too irresistible to him. When he finally took his full length in his mouth, Connor let out a whine that made Haytham’s own cock twitch, so he sucked, making Connor snarl. The Assassin’s calloused hands were tightly clutching his blue sleeping mat he insisted on carrying everywhere, almost ripping it.

Haytham’s lips moved in and out for a few times. Then he let go, earning him an impatient growl from Connor.

“Do we still have any bear grease left?” asked Haytham.

“Huh?” Connor was completed consumed by lust. It took him several seconds to come back. “In my saddle bag,” he husked.

“Be right back.”

Haytham exited their tent, and came back moments later with a jar of bear grease in his hand. He then kneeled in front of Connor’s naked body, opened the jar and dipped his fingers in the grease.

“What is that for?” Connor frowned at him, confused.

“You don’t know?” Haytham tilted his eyebrows. When Connor awkwardly shook his head, he said, slightly amused, “My fingers will go inside you, to stretch you, if we put it crudely, so that you can accommodate me.”

Connor winced. “That sounds hurtful.”

“A little,” said Haytham, whose clean hand started slowly stroking Connor’s cock. “So I need you to relax.”

“Hmm, okay,” breathed Connor, distracted.

Then Haytham put his index finger into Connor’s entrance, making him gasp.

Haytham’s other hand didn’t stop. And he laid feather-light kisses on the younger man’s inner thighs, pelvis and balls. His finger started moving in and out.

When Connor was more pliant, he slipped in a second one. When they were in knuckle deep, Haytham waited for Connor to relax, and started working, while murmuring soothing words to the younger man.

Suddenly, a choked moan escaped Connor’s mouth. And he writhed. Haytham knew he just hit his prostate, so he stroke that spot for a few more times, making him gasping for air, before putting in the last finger.

After working his fingers for some time, Haytham eventually withdrew them, undid his laces, and released his painfully hard erection with a sigh. Then he greased himself out, aligned his cock to Connor’s waiting hole, slowly pushed in until it was root-deep, and hissed.

“Fuck,” he swore.

“Hurts,” said Connor, brows furrowed in pain. His body tensed up as well.

Haytham bit his lower lip to prevent himself from relentlessly ripping him apart, though the hot tightness was making it very difficult. Instead, he held still, and resumed to stroking Connor’s flagging penis.

When the younger man let out a wanting moan, Haytham experimentally rolled his hip, earning another desperate moan from Connor.

So Haytham lowered himself to kiss Connor’s lips, while starting to thrust. He tried a few times before he could find that sweet spot that could make Connor whine and groan in the most delicious and desperate way, and push his hip up every time he sheathed his cock.

They picked up a steady pace. The smell of sweat and sex spread inside the small tent. They kissed until their lips were bruised and they had to gasp for air. Connor’s legs were wrapped around Haytham’s sturdy waist like a clamp, and he was making all kinds of noises. There was a beautiful blush on his face. Haytham’s eyes were locked onto him, and he couldn’t look away to save his life.

It was good. It was brilliant. It was perfect.

The ball of fire was slowly accumulated in Haytham’s lower abdomen. He was close. His pumping on Connor’s cock, as well as his movements had already lost any kind of rhythm. It was just lust, and desire, and joy.

Suddenly, everything seemed to become white before him. His hip snapped up, and he came inside Connor with a snarl. Almost at the same time, a particularly loud cry escaped Connor’s mouth. His cock jerked, and spilled white fluid on his own stomach.

Haytham withdrew with a wet sound, and collapsed on his son, couldn’t care less the semen he got on himself.

He finally came back from the blissful heaven a few seconds later, and then rolled onto his back, feeling completely exhausted. Connor gently held his shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

“I love you, father,” he whispered, smiling.

“Hmm,” snorted Haytham, “I know, silly boy.”

Then he turned his head to give him a peck on the mouth, and contently closed his eyes.

 

The next time he opened his eyes, the sun had already risen. He quietly sat up, rubbed his hands on his face, and winced at the layer of dried semen on his naked body.

Then a sudden wave of panic and guilt assaulted him, almost making him scream.

He glanced at the also naked young man who was still soundly asleep beside him, and swallowed.

“Oh god, what have I done?” he mused aloud.

He just thoroughly fucked his own son and basically admitted he loved him as a lover. He just crossed the line he had sworn up and down that he would never cross.

Haytham could practically hear Ziio cursing him with all the fire and venom that woman had got in her grave.

So he hastily put on his discarded clothes, and escaped out of the tent.

By the time he finished cleaning himself up in the nearby stream, and returned to their camp to face his son, Connor was already up and dressed.

Seeing Haytham, he smiled, “I almost thought you got lost.”

It was a genuine smile, a smile that indicated he was…happy?

He started to regret he wasn’t there when Connor first opened his eyes.

“In your dreams,” he retorted, then went to pick up his waistcoat from that pile of clothes they had taken off before going to bed last night.

Connor was putting on his bracers. And then he stopped, and turned towards the Templar.

“I know what I must do now, father,” he said, stoutly.

Haytham raised his eyebrows at him.

“I will protect my people at all cost,” said Connor, “It was why I first joined the Brotherhood, after all.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” asked Haytham.

“My enemy is a notion, not a nation. If that means I have to work under the new nation, so be it.”

Haytham was actually expecting a similar answer. He knew the boy wouldn’t be putting vengeance before his cause, though that wasn’t the reason he agreed to show him those documents in the first place.

But then what did it say about the Templars? What did it say about Washington? Apparently, none of them had the perfect moral to lead a new nation. Especially not the Templars, which was something Haytham came to grudgingly realized recently. But it didn’t matter anymore now, did it? With the Assassins’ renewed endorsement, and Charles Lee being in Haytham’s personal disgrace, Washington was the most likely founder of this would-be nation.

And the Templars had to bet on the winning side.

So he smiled.

“That’s a fair point, and something we can both agree on,” he said. “But what gives you the idea, I’m curious?”

Connor blushed, furiously.

“Last night…” he stuttered, “showed that the Assassins and the Templars could at least coexist…”

Despite himself, Haytham laughed, and was almost double over.

Who could’ve guessed? The incestuous sodomy between the leaders of the Assassins and the Templars had forged their new alliance. It was just ingenious. He wondered why no one had thought of that sooner.

“What can I say?” When he calmed himself down under the confused eyes of Connor’s, and wiped out the tears on his face, he said, “I’m more than happy to help.”

If crossing that line was what it took to end the ancient war, then he, Haytham Kenway, would gladly cross it a thousand more times.


End file.
